


Adding Shadows

by the_chaotic_panda



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Caves, Extreme Sports, M/M, Smut, Spelunking, heights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27375868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_chaotic_panda/pseuds/the_chaotic_panda
Summary: Pete and Patrick embark on an unusual honeymoon.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 28
Kudos: 34
Collections: Trick Or Pete 2020





	Adding Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what day it is, how long this took me or why I felt the need to write it, all I know is that my laptop's on 3% and so am I. Please, enjoy this somewhat spooky tale, and don't try any of this at home.

"Is this it," Pete sniffs as Patrick hands him a £1 cheese sandwich from the petrol station. The packaging is squashed and the plastic film is smudged with condensation. A patch of grease has seeped through the cardboard and stained a picture of a much perkier sandwich.

"It looked better than the egg mayo one," Patrick shrugs, sliding into the car with a limp-looking salad in his lap.

"Not even a packet of crisps. Thanks, Ebeneezer."

"We're, like, three quarters of the way there. I think you'll live." Patrick pops open the plastic salad box and the car immediately smells of vinegar. There's a tiny, oily plastic fork hidden among the leaves. Pete makes a face and turns back to his sandwich. It's - moist, and not in a good way. He stuffs as much of it in his mouth as he can bear and mopes.

"I hate this," he says through a mass of wet bread and rubber cheese, "this is the worst honeymoon ever."

"D'you wanna fucking drive?" Patrick snaps, then he spears a cherry tomato and it squirts him in the face. Pete doesn't laugh - Patrick's been in a foul mood since Bristol and that salad can't be helping. The spinach had the nutrients vaccumed out of it long ago.

Pete attempts to appease him by offering to take Patrick's empty bowl of speckled oil to the recycling, and it must work at least a _little_ bit because Patrick's lips twitch and he says a quiet "Thank you". Pete never thought he'd marry someone who cares about recycling. Hell, he never thought he'd _meet_ someone who cares about recycling, but here he is, peeling slimy plastic away from soggy cardboard and dropping it into the respective overflowing garbage piles. Being married isn't quite what Pete expected.

It's started to rain by the time Pete gets back in the car. Patrick's slumped over the steering wheel and staring up at it. The ring gleams on his white-knuckled hand and Pete catches it before he can kick the car into gear. "Nearly there," he says fondly.

Patrick's fingers briefly squeeze his own, but his eyes don't quite meet Pete's before they slip back to the road. Pete watches the tension return to his shoulders and hopes, _really_ hopes, that the cabin they're headed to is worth it.

-

It isn't. Pete can't tell if it's the weather (gloomy), the location (South Wales) or the cabin itself (small, damp, dated), but the atmosphere is thick with disappointment, when it should be thick with chemistry, or sexual tension, or lust.

"I mean, it's cosy," Pete reasons as they stare around at the room. It's barely big enough for the double bed; a bathroom is squashed into the corner and there's no wardrobe. No storage anywhere, actually. It's - cheap. Which, after finding it on a list of ‘cheap UK hotels’, shouldn’t come as a shock to Pete, but still, if he had a cat, he’d like to be able to swing it. "And - remote. No-one will hear us shagging."

Patrick doesn’t laugh - he only laughs when he’s flirting, or embarrassed, or when Pete’s around, a bit of both - but his stiff mouth twitches and he slides a glance at Pete that makes Pete’s knees weak. When he leaves to fetch the cases, Pete falls onto the bed and stares at his cute little arse. Pete can't remember the last time they fucked without Pete's parents in the next room; it seems like _years_ since Pete achieved orgasm without his hand clamped over his mouth. He's going to make Patrick _scream._

"I need a piss," Patrick says when he finally shuts the weather out. His eyes flick around the cabin and his expression slopes downward. Then he shuffles into the bathroom and shuts the door. Pete even thinks he hears him sit down to wee. It's worse than Pete thought.

But Operation: Nudity is still underway, so Pete scrambles to rid himself of as many items of clothing as possible before he hears the toilet flush. Everything but his socks is on the floor when Patrick emerges.

"Oh, God," is the first thing Patrick says when he _not_ a random stranger in his bed but his husband, whom he should find beautiful at all times. "Must you?"

"It's our wedding night," Pete says, taking it on the chin. He'll take it anywhere, at this rate. "Don't you want a slice of this?"

Patrick's not a romantic. It used to be something that bothered Pete (it’s not that he _wants_ flowers, or chocolates, but the thought would be nice) until it became clear that Patrick’s love language is a series of slow evolutions, like the Thai meals Patrick’s learned to cook or the supply of phone chargers he keeps on his person. Patrick’s sombre logic doesn’t mean he’s devoid of love - it just means he’s a bit of a bastard, sometimes. "It's not our wedding night. Saturday was our wedding night. Today is Monday."

Pete extends himself towards Patrick and uses his hold on Patrick's hips to heave himself off the bed. He lifts Patrick's chin and kisses him softly, and after a moment, Patrick begins to kiss back, his wet hands brushing over Pete's bare torso. Pete giggles at the sudden coldness. "You've got some catching up to do," he breathes against Patrick's mouth, pulling at the tails of his shirt.

"I haven't showered," Patrick frowns, but he starts to undress all the same, carefully unbuttoning his shirt and hanging it on the hook behind the door. It's the closest Pete'll ever get to a strip-tease from Patrick - he gives his cock a few teasing strokes as he watches the shrug of Patrick's bare shoulders, the flex of muscle in his thighs.

"I like filth," Pete grins. Patrick hasn't taken his briefs off yet, but Pete fits his hand around the shape of Patrick's dick and watches the rise of breath in Patrick's chest. "What are you in the mood for? D'you want my mouth?"

Patrick nods quickly, and gasps into Pete's mouth when Pete squeezes his cock. Pete sinks to his knees and presses his face to Patrick's underwear, breathing him in. He can feel Patrick's hardness beneath his cheek, throbbing and urgent.

"Is this for me?" Pete grins up at Patrick, his hand wandering along the clothed length of Patrick's cock. Patrick says he doesn't like dirty talk, but that's his brain talking - his body adores it, his hips twitching towards Pete's mouth. "God, I've wanted you for hours." Then, Pete slides Patrick's underwear down and fits his lips over Patrick's cock.

Despite the years they've been together, Patrick has a way of looking at Pete as if he's seeing him for the first time. His eyes are wide when Pete glances up at them, his mouth slack and his hands hovering around Pete's head, as if he can't quite believe his cock is in Pete's mouth. Pete knows what Patrick likes, though; he takes Patrick deep and slow, fondling his balls in one hand and carefully pushing the other between Patrick's cheeks.

Pete pulls off when Patrick tugs gently at his ear. "Yes, dear?"

"Can we move to the bed," Patrick says, his voice roughed with arousal and his eyes dark. "Otherwise I might fall over."

Pete smiles and presses a wet kiss to the base of Patrick's cock before rising to his feet. "Make yourself comfortable," he says, drawing Patrick into a kiss and feeling him whimper as their hard cocks brush between them.

Patrick settles on the bed, arms and legs spread, and when Pete slides over him they wrap around him, pulling him closer. For once in his life, Pete’s careful, focussed, his attention drizzled over Patrick’s body as he takes him slowly, sweetly. They’re loud together, they moan together, and finally, they come together, wrapped up in one another completely. It’s their honeymoon, after all. If nothing else, Pete can make sure the sex is good.

*

Afterwards, Pete lays his head on Patrick's chest and spreads a hand over his pale ribcage. "Something wrong?"

"It's fine. It's just - Wales," Patrick sighs. There's a frown etched into his face.

"What about it?"

"You're right. This _is_ the worst honeymoon ever." His mouth forms a hard line until Pete kisses it soft.

"This is what we can afford," Pete murmurs. "It's a warm-up. For when we go somewhere cool. And this _will_ be cool, it's one of the best places to cave in the country. And, y'know, it's just the two of us. And that's what we wanted all along."

A smile flickers in Patrick's eyes. "Yeah," he says, his fingers trailing over Pete's bare hip. "I like caves."

This has been obvious since they met - even in the taster session at their local leisure centre, Patrick had told Pete that he didn't want to scale the cliffs of Yosemite or trek across Torres de Paine, he wanted to go underground. Pete had laughed, and now here he is, married to a mole-man and honeymooning above the South Wales cave network.

They'll get to Kilimanjaro. When Patrick's got his PhD and Pete's got his shit together, they'll feel the wind on their faces in Thessalia and Table Mountain and the Grampians. For now, though, a tiny cabin and a car full of non-sexy harnesses will have to do - besides, caves are more private than mountains, and therefore more suited to quickies. When Pete suggested this, Patrick reminded him that they must leave the caves exactly as they were, i.e. without come on them. Patrick's no fun.

He's particularly humourless when he wakes Pete up at the crack of dawn without so much as a blowjob; it takes five minutes of whining before he even makes Pete a cup of tea. Pete frowns into it as Patrick flits around the cabin, already dressed in his ridiculous striped thermals. The leggings look annoyingly good on him.

"Why the rush," Pete sulks, "the caves aren't going anywhere."

"The longer we have, the more we'll see," Patrick chirps, filling up Pete's water bottle and tucking it one of the carefully packed rucksacks at the foot of the bed. He'll make a great dad, someday.

"You could've warned me before I spent two hours on Instagram last night."

"I've been warning you against that for the past five years," Patrick says flatly. He doesn't understand the joys of social media. Pete would envy him if it wasn't for the high horse he likes to mount every time Pete shows him a puppy video. Pete submerges himself in the pillows and gargles tea at Patrick. Patrick tuts. "You've got twenty minutes before I want to be out the door."

"Happy honeymoon, Pete," Pete says to himself. "Have a great holiday. You deserve it, Pete, you really do."

"You _like_ climbing," Patrick reminds him. He's putting on wetsocks that rise halfway up his calves. No sport should ever involve wetsocks.

"I like climbing _mountains,_ " Pete replies. It takes the tectonic power of the earth's crust to heave him out of bed, and in the two paces between the bed and the bathroom, he trips on a rope, a helmet, and Patrick's foot. "And don't say that thing about all caves being mountains. I don't care. They're dark and wet and horrible."

Patrick shakes his head and folds his arms, but it's hard to seem menacing when clad from head to toe in body-hugging polypropylene. It hides nothing - Patrick looks like the star of Dr. Seuss soft porn. "I didn't _say_ that, I said the rock formations in the caves mimic -"

"Nice penis," Pete grins, pointing. Patrick's hands twitch towards his bulge. For a man on his honeymoon, he's surprisingly frigid. Pete blows him a kiss and gets a scowl in return, but he knows that little spark in Patrick's eye. Maybe this isn't the worst honeymoon ever, after all.

*

"So," Pete says once he's standing on a grassy knoll in a bright orange jumpsuit. Mountaineers definitely have better dress sense; Pete feels as if he's about to do some sewer-based community service. "Where are we headed?"

There's very little parking in rural Wales (or, there's _loads_ of parking, depending on how much you care about the environment) so the first half-hour was spent walking from the Adventure Centre to the particular cave Patrick has his heart set on. He's got a hand-drawn map, and everything, little coloured markers for the different routes and carefully labelled in his neat, detached handwriting. There’s a crease between his brows as he studies it, his face perfectly focussed. It’s undeniable – he’s hot like this.

“That way,” he says eventually, pointing to the hole in the ground behind them.

“Oh,” Pete says. “Good place to start.”

It doesn’t look inviting. The rocks are dark with rain and the mouth is strewn with beer bottles and coke cans. Pete makes a bet with himself that when they emerge, Patrick will collect the rubbish and recycle it. It’s easy, on the surface, to make fun of Patrick – now, Pete finds him unequivocally lovely.

He’s in his element, right now. He’s secured a rope around a bolt in the rock, and even in heavy boots and his pack, he’s light on his feet as he picks his way towards the cave. Abseiling comes as naturally to him as walking; he’s at the bottom of the pit in the blink of an eye, beckoning for Pete to join him.

“Headlamps,” he reminds Pete when they’re standing on the cusp of light and dark. There’s a small, rickety set of steps constructed over a drop in the rock, and Patrick insists they stay harnessed, just in case they’re unsafe. Pete makes a show of taking them two at a time. He’s a climber, after all. Anything involving _stairs_ is child’s play. It’s not that there’s a rivalry between cavers and mountaineers – there doesn’t have to be. Mountaineering is just…cooler. Pete lands on the cave floor in front of Patrick with a flourish, and grins into Patrick’s scowl.

“Be careful,” Patrick warns. There’s a bar of daylight slashed across his face, bringing out the blue in his eyes. It disappears when Patrick steps further into the darkness.

“I’m always careful,” Pete brushes off, “I climb mountains.”

“Falling is the number one cause of death in caves,” Patrick cheerfully informs him. He begins to pick his way across the uneven stretch of slick, sand-coloured rock at their feet. He’s not hasty about it. Pete hovers behind him.

“Again, I climb mountains,” Pete says. “That, my friend, is a fall risk.” He hops on the spot and immediately loses his footing, his boot slipping against the rock and his balance wavering. Patrick snorts. “That was a coincidence,” Pete scowls, “pure coincidence.”

The cave narrows ahead of them, its ceiling dropping into a squat, narrow tunnel. Patrick stoops, angling his headlamp into the darkness. It’s not tight – Pete could probably make it without bending his knees if he leant forward – but Patrick drops to a crawl, his kneepads clacking against the rock.

Cave sex might be forbidden, but that doesn’t stop Pete imagining as he crawls behind Patrick, watching his arse shift from side to side. The acoustics would be second to none. They’ve never fucked outdoors. Patrick doesn’t seem to get off on danger. They differ in that respect – Pete sometimes worries they’re _too_ different, that they’ll become unhappy. They’ve been together for years, but with no money and no house, maybe it was still a little too soon. By the time the crawl opens out, Pete’s well and truly lost his erection.

They end up in a chamber tall enough to stand in. It’s fairly boring, a small, featureless space with two tunnels branching at the far end. Water trickles somewhere in the depths, the sound stretched and warped over miles of passages. Pete’s light suddenly doesn’t seem bright enough.

“You okay?” Patrick asks, like Pete’s sprained a limb.

“Fine,” Pete laughs, “I’m not actually a beginner, y’know.”

Patrick makes an annoying, haughty face. “I know. But, not everyone likes crawls.”

“Does _anyone_ like crawls?”

“Some people get panicked, that’s all.”

“Well, I’m fine,” Pete asserts. It’s a 5ft tunnel, not a volcano.

“Good, ‘cause this one’s smaller.”

Sure enough, the passage Patrick starts towards is half the size of the last, barely tall enough to allow for a crouch. Pete rolls his eyes; it’s hardly a challenge. There’s someone’s name carved into the wall, for God’s sake, any old idiot can shove themselves through a hole. Pete’s dick has managed it for years. Until there’s human remains lying around, Pete won’t consider getting scared.

“So – what exactly are we looking for,” Pete asks Patrick’s bum.

“What do you mean?” Patrick replies. He’s going slow, placing his hands and knees with care and gradually pushing Pete’s patience to the limit.

“Well, what’s, like, the goal?”

Patrick huffs like he did when he refused Pete’s first proposal. “It’s not about a _goal._ We’re not climbing a mountain. It’s about – seeing things. Exploring.”

Pete’s hand suddenly slips out from under him and he throws out an elbow to avoid losing his looks to a slab of rock. He breathes heavily for a few seconds – he’s getting hot, now, sweat pooling in his pits and between his toes. Patrick must be boiling in his funky underwear. When Pete asks, Patrick just grunts at him.

There’s a sour note in the atmosphere by the time the passage finally spits them out. It’s another empty chamber. On one side, a rocky drop into a pit, and on the other, another fucking tunnel. Pete peers over the edge. Heights – they’re his niche.

“Can we go this way?” he asks. Patrick’s light shines into the pit. “Looks like there’s a passage at the bottom. We’ve got enough rope.”

Patrick digs his map from his pocket and takes his bottom lip between his teeth. “Uh. Yeah, I considered that route,” he says, because of course he did, “I discounted it because of the squeeze.”

“I thought you liked a squeeze,” Pete smirks, but Patrick doesn’t get the joke.

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he says pointedly.

Pete scowls. “Right, ‘cause I’m such a fucking liability. Do you even want me here?”

Patrick blinks at him. “Why are you angry with me?” 

They’ve had a few conversations like this. Patrick has a habit of not realising when he’s acting like a twat. Usually, Pete makes allowances for it. Right now, overheated and stuck in the dark, Pete’s not in as charitable a mood. “Because you’re acting like a twat.”

“I didn’t think you’d be comfortable with the smaller spaces.”

“You didn’t ask,” Pete reminds him.

His mouth crumples. “Okay. Well – it’s not an easy route.”

“I can do it,” Pete says firmly, “the crawls were fine.”

“It’s tight, though,” Patrick says doubtfully.

Pete shrugs. “I can do that. Other people have done it, right?”

“It’s a South Wales cave, of course other people have done it,” Patrick says. “I just thought – if you don’t like tight spaces…”

“Not on a daily basis, no,” Pete replies. “I swear, I’ll be fine. I didn’t like heights when I first started climbing, and now look where I am.”

“In a cave,” Patrick says.

“Look, let’s do it,” Pete bristles. He hates – _hates –_ being called a coward. He eats rocks like this for breakfast (metaphorically speaking; he’s got sensitive molars), he could climb circles around Patrick.

Patrick looks unconvinced, but he drops his pack to the floor and begins laying out ropes and pulleys. “Alright. Just – let me know if you get cold feet.”

“We’re in a cave, of course I’ve got cold feet,” Pete snorts. Now that he’s standing still, his sweat has cooled and he feels the chill of ghostly winds over his face. Maybe a dick-showing onesie wouldn’t’ve been a bad idea after all. 

“Should’ve worn the wetsocks,” Patrick tuts.

It’s about thirty metres into the pit. It’s not a free-hanging drop – this isn’t your average class climbing trip – it’s awkward, bulges of rock blocking the descent and jagged edges waiting to snag on loose clothing. “I’ll go first,” Pete says.

The elbow pads Patrick made him wear become annoyingly useful as Pete navigates the pitch. It’s nearly impossible to get a good look at where he’s going; his headlamp only illuminates what’s right in front of him and he keeps smacking his limbs on unnoticed protrusions and overhangs. Every time he looks down, he sees a maw of darkness that makes his stomach twist. He’s not so sure about heights, anymore.

“You okay?” Patrick calls.

“Yep,” Pete replies, even though he’s face to face with a jagged rock and he can’t find a foothold. “Give me some more slack.” The sooner he’s on solid ground, the better.

He slithers down awkwardly and slumps to the floor without any kind of grace. Shingle rattles beneath him, and behind him, the cave gapes, his vision blushing in the near-darkness. He scrabbles to his feet and turns back to the pitch. If Patrick sees him collapsed on the floor, he’ll winch him right back to the surface. “Alright, your turn,” he says.

If Pete didn’t know Patrick better, he’d say he was showing off as he flits down the face of the rock. Patrick is, annoyingly, an excellent climber; he makes his way towards Pete slowly and surely, and without nearly as much flailing. He’s strong, confident, attractive. Also, a fucking bastard for making Pete feel so inadequate. Pete focusses on his irritation rather than the tunnel behind him – he keeps seeing things he doesn’t want to see. Despite their arguing, it’s an enormous relief when Patrick lands on the ground beside him.

He nearly takes hold of Patrick’s hips under the pretence of helping him with his harness, but they’re both still pretending to be mad, so Pete refrains. He doesn’t look towards the tunnel until Patrick’s lamp lights it for him. Though he’d rather swallow his own rope than admit it, he’d really like to hold Patrick’s hand.

The tunnel has collapsed in some spots, leaving jagged holes in the rock that Pete decidedly doesn’t peer into. He tries not to copy where Patrick puts his feet – Patrick’s not his tour guide. It’s the dark that’s making him jumpy.

At first, it looks like a dead end. The space contracts to a crawl, and Pete’s headlamp shines on nothing but rock and the backs of Patrick’s thighs. Then, Patrick stops, twisting his body to reveal a jagged gap in the wall. It’s maybe three feet wide and a foot high. “Is that it?” Pete says.

Patrick nods. “Like I said, it’s tight. We’ll have to take our packs off.”

“How far is it?”

“Five metres or so. Far enough,” he shrugs.

Pete peers through the crack. He can’t see anything beyond it but darkness. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Patrick studies him for a few seconds and then nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll go first,” he says, “the trick is small movements. Use your fingers and toes, rather than your arms and legs.”

“Right,” Pete says. He’s been climbing for as long as Patrick, he knows the importance of strong toes. Patrick’s still looking at him like he’s a small child in need of supervision. “Go on then,” Pete goads, “show me how it’s done.”

Patrick doesn’t need to be told twice. He shoves his pack into the gap and disappears after it, burrowing his way into the wall until all Pete can see are the dusty treads of his boots. There’s still a good few inches between Patrick’s spine and the roof of the tunnel – Pete’s not _that_ much bulkier than Patrick.

One of the many things Pete didn’t consider about negotiating a squeeze is the fact that Patrick’s now left him alone, by himself, in the tunnel. The darkness falls around him like a wave, creeping everywhere he isn’t looking, into the cracks above him and the passage behind him. The longer he looks at it, the more he seems to see – shapes, figures, movement. Logically, he knows there’s nothing there; but logic doesn’t stop fear creeping over his skin.

“Patrick?” he calls, turning back to the gap in the rock. Patrick’s light illuminates the end of the tunnel, and suddenly, his boots disappear. “How’re you doing?”

There’s a few seconds of laboured breathing before Patrick replies, “Okay, I’m through.” Just as Patrick speaks, Pete thinks he hears something. Maybe more water – maybe something else. He takes his pack off in preparation, casting a glance behind him. Each time he turns his head, the shadows seem to jump out at him.

Pushing his pack ahead of him, Pete ducks his head into the gap. He has to twist to one side to avoid scraping his helmet against the roof of the tunnel, and his shoulders barely fit, even when he stretches flat. Still, he stuffs himself into the space, pushing until his whole body is sandwiched between two rough sheets of rock. “Okay, I’m in,” he says, getting a mouthful of dust, “didn’t think I’d fit.”

“Bigger people have come through here,” Patrick replies, and Pete tries to think of a joke involving Patrick’s arse, but he’s having too much trouble with his own. Whenever he tries to move his leg, his hip lifts and he becomes wedged in place, no matter how much he pushes. “Small movements, remember?”

He can’t look at Patrick. He can’t even look at his own hands, scrabbling for purchase over the rock ahead. He can’t move his hips or his knees. The only thing he can see is the wall of the tunnel, shadowed with the shape of his own body. He can’t move. He can’t move.

“Shit. I think I’m stuck,” he breathes. Whatever he heard, whatever he saw, it’s coming. It’s lurking. He’ll have to lie here, wedged between thousands of tonnes of rock, and let it have him.

“You’re not stuck,” Patrick tells him, and anger flashes in Pete’s chest. He’s always so fucking oblivious _._ “You just need to relax.”

“Relax?!” Pete spits, wriggling furiously against the rock. It’s the gloves, they’re too thick – they slip uselessly over the ground and leave him panting, flagging. If he turns his eyes to the side until they hurt, he can see the ceiling of stone above him. One shift of the earth, and he’ll be crushed. “I can’t fucking relax!”

“Yes, you can,” Patrick says, but his voice is getting further away. Pete tries to shift towards it, but he’s never won a fight against stone and the more he strains, the more the walls seem to lean inwards. He thrashes until they flatten him, until the air is gone from his lungs.

“I can’t,” he gasps, his shoulder blades grating against the rock and his neck beginning to twinge, “I can’t fucking _move,_ Patrick!”

“Try to calm down,” Patrick says, and Pete responds with a sob of panic. “You need to –“

Pete stops listening. He can feel the walls collapsing around him, squeezing him tighter and tighter, trapping him in his own tomb. The rockfall won’t kill him. He’ll die alone, in the dark, after days of starvation, when he finally gives in to an endless sleep.

Then, another light shines into the tunnel. “Pete,” Patrick says, close and calm, “I’m here.”

There’s a high chance that he’s already dead, but when Pete whimpers “I can’t breathe,” his chest aches with it, so he must be at least half alive.

“Yes, you can,” Patrick says, his gloved fingers closing around Pete’s own, “take a deep breath with me.”

Pete listens, follows the rush of air from Patrick’s chest.

“Now, try to relax your shoulders,” Patrick soothes, his hand touching the bare skin of Pete’s wrist.

Pete slumps his shoulders and with them, his body sinks to the rock. He drinks in deep gulps of air that make his head spin but keeps his thoughts on Patrick. Patrick did this; Pete can do it too. With the tips of his toes, he pushes at the ground, and slowly, guided by Patrick’s hand, he begins to shuffle forward.

It’s easier when he closes his eyes. That way, he’s not in a cave, he’s somewhere else – maybe under their bed, reaching for a stray pair of pants or an odd sock. He follows Patrick’s soft words of encouragement until finally, he can lift his head, look at his husband. With all the strength left in his arms, he heaves himself forward, pulling his shoulders free and hooking an elbow over the edge of the gap to lever himself out.

Once he’s free, to move and to breathe, he pulls his legs to his chest and immediately bursts into tears.

“Fuck,” he cries into his gloves, “I really thought I was a goner.”

Patrick slides to the floor beside him and gathers him up, letting him cry without a word. Eventually, he says, “I promise – you weren’t in any danger.” When Pete blinks up at him, he looks guilt-stricken. “I wouldn’t ever put you in danger.”

Pete’s still sure he heard _something,_ lurking in the dark, but the more he breathes, the more his mind clears. “I know,” he says wetly, “I know.” He’s still got hold of Patrick’s hand. He’s still alive.

“We don’t have to keep going,” Patrick says, like Pete’s commitment didn’t just make him stuff himself into a wall.

“Are you kidding?” Pete sniffs, “I’m not fucking going back.” He stirs in Patrick’s arms and stands on wobbly knees. “Let’s just keep going.”

Patrick’s headlamp makes strange, alien shapes on the wall as he brushes dust off their packs and gets to his feet. Pete lets him go first; as much as he loves Patrick, he’d rather he was eaten first.

Pete’s slower, now – the ground is uneven, and he takes his time choosing the best footing, the safest way rather than the quickest way. Patrick nips ahead, disappearing around a sharp twist in the tunnel and taking his light with him. Then, Pete hears a sharp gasp.

Pete’s heart drops through several layers of stone and he scrambles to catch up, expecting the monster, or his husband’s lifeless body, or both. “Patrick?” he calls, “Patrick! Are you okay?”

Patrick’s figure is standing, motionless, at the mouth of the tunnel, shrouded in the glow of his headlamp.

“Patrick,” Pete breathes when he’s within touching distance, his hand clamping over Patrick’s shoulder. When he looks at Patrick’s face, his eyes are dazed, unfocussed. “Are you alright?”

Patrick just smiles absently. “Look,” he says, and Pete turns around.

The tunnel around them opens out into a chamber the size of a cathedral, its towering ceiling glittering with crystal and its walls embossed with cascades of flowstone. In the centre is a clear, still, altar-like pool. “Okay, that’s pretty cool,” Pete admits.

Each step they take echoes around the vast space, flutters of noise lost between the spindly fingers of stalagmites. Pete suddenly _gets_ it; instead of scrambling straight to the top, cavers get a journey full of secret, enchanted places all to themselves. When Pete glances at Patrick, Patrick’s eyes glisten with moisture.

“Baby,” Pete says softly, sliding a hand to the small of Patrick’s back, “Oh, baby. You okay?"

Nodding, Patrick removes his glove and wipes at his eyes. His headlamp catches on his wedding ring and it shines like crystal as he folds towards Pete, his fingers resting on Pete’s chest. Pete takes hold of them and squeezes them tight.

“Thank you for doing this,” Patrick says quietly. And then, “I love you.”

He doesn’t say it often. Not when he leaves for work, not as they’re going to sleep, not even after sex. He says it when he feels it, strongly and truly. Each occasion is a moment Pete will cherish for the rest of his life. “Come here,” he whispers, and Patrick presses closer, their helmets knocking together.

It’s difficult to kiss in caving gear but they manage it; soft, sweet pecks to dry lips and gloved fingers brushing dusty skin. For the first time since they arrived, Pete’s glad they’re here.

When they pull apart, Patrick’s grinning, his eyes twinkling like they did at the altar. “Look,” he says suddenly, pointing to the curve of wall beside them. It’s covered in white, spiralling crystals. “Helictites.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Pete says, even though he loves it, how enlivened Patrick is. “It’s cute.”

“Anthodites,” Patrick replies, gesturing at the sparkling ceiling.

“You must’ve seen this stuff before,” Pete says, picking his way after Patrick. The flowstone casts spindly, reaching shadows over the walls. It’s beautifully creepy.

“Do you ever get bored of mountain views?” Patrick asks, and it’s a fair point. His voice is hushed, as if he’s in a place of worship; he leans over the pool, face filled with reverence and a palm stretched over the perfect surface. “Everything’s so – untouched, here. Like, we’re really just guests on this planet. Eventually, nature will take it back.”

“I love it when you get philosophical.”

Patrick throws a smile over his shoulder. “I know.”

Pete ends up perched on a stray boulder as Patrick wanders around the cave, taking photos and peering at crystals. It’s so quiet – beyond the sound of Patrick’s footsteps, there’s nothing at all, no traffic, no aeroplanes. It’s a bit spooky.

Until Pete _does_ hear something else. It emanates from the depths of the caves, quiet and creeping. The chamber has three tunnels leading from it – one right ahead of Pete, pitch black and gaze-grabbing, and the others at equal intervals around the room. Now that Pete thinks on it, he’s not sure which one they came in from. Patrick’ll know.

They eat squashed sandwiches beside the pool, their packs by their sides and their knees touching. Patrick crunches on a packet of carrot sticks. They really are very different people.

“We did the right thing, didn’t we?” Pete asks all of a sudden. “Getting married, I mean.”

Patrick looks at him for a few seconds. “Yes,” he says eventually. “Yes, we did.”

“Even though we’ve got no money? Even though we might not move out for years? You wanted to wait, before.”

Patrick shrugs. “I was wrong.”

Pete blinks at him. “Seriously? ‘Cause, I don’t think you’ve ever been wrong in your life.”

“I was wrong in thinking it even mattered. The timing was never going to be perfect. I’m just happy we’re married,” he says matter-of-factly.

Pete smiles into the butter-smudged crust of his sandwich. “Okay. Just checking.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, rooting around in his pack, “I got you a Snickers.”

Pete stares at the chocolate bar Patrick produces. “You got me a Snickers?”

“Call it a wedding present.”

“I’ll treasure it for the next ten seconds,” Pete grins, and then in one motion, unwraps the whole bar and stuff it into his mouth. “’Ove ‘ou,” he garbles.

Patrick makes a face. Things seem easier, after that; Pete used to think Patrick was difficult to read, but really, he’s the most straight-forward man in the world. Pete’s just had to be brave enough to ask the right questions.

It’s when they’re packing up that Pete hears the noise again. It’s buried under the sound of empty sandwich wrappers and the zip of Patrick’s bag, but it’s there, distant and menacing. It taps and scrapes and nears the chamber. Pete looks at Patrick.

“You hear that, right?”

“It’s probably a bat, or something,” Patrick shrugs, slinging his pack over his shoulders.

“Fuckin’ big bat.”

“A swarm of bats, then.”

“I dunno. It sounds – heavy.”

Patrick cocks his head to one side and listens. It’s definitely louder than it was a few minutes ago. Pete feels like an earthworm waiting for a mole. “Sometimes caves make weird noises,” Patrick says, but Pete sees the flicker of uncertainty over his face. “We don’t have to carry on.”

A sharp crack suddenly echoes around the chamber. Both their headlamps snap straight to the gaping tunnel ahead. “What the fuck was that,” Pete whispers.

Patrick’s mouth has arranged itself into a neat frown. He’s still staring at the tunnel. “Rockfall, maybe,” he says, but his voice is hushed, as if there’s something to be scared of.

“You sure?”

“No.”

There’s another grinding, scraping sound, stone drawn against stone, and Pete’s senses go into overdrive, hyper-aware of every scuff of his boots, every beat of his heart. When Patrick clears his throat, Pete’s body nearly leaves his skin behind. “Maybe we should leave,” Pete says, barely a sound left in him.

Patrick’s eyes are still trained on the tunnel. His headlamp illuminates the edges but gets lost in the middle, eaten up by the impenetrable darkness – until it catches on something, something that moves. He glances at Pete, alarm written over his face. Pete’s never seen Patrick scared. He doesn’t want to change that.

“Let’s just go,” Patrick says, turning on his heel and stalking back to the smaller, more inviting tunnel.

His pace is quicker, now, and Pete drives to catch up, hastened by fear. The squeeze doesn’t seem so terrifying, anymore.

But they walk, and walk, and walk, and the squeeze doesn’t arrive. They twist through the darkness, away from the chamber, from the strange noises, until the tunnel opens out. Patrick stops in his tracks, shaking his head. “No,” he says.

Pete looks around and sees the crystals, the pool, the spot where the ate lunch. They’re back in the chamber. “I thought that was the way out?”

“It _is,_ ” Patrick says, walking into the chamber and looking around wildly. “We came in that way!”

All the tunnels look extremely similar. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” Patrick snaps, “we came in through there and I spotted the crystals on – on…” His outstretched finger trails around the room. There’s crystals on every wall.

“Are we lost?” Pete asks.

“No!” Patrick says sharply, and then another noise crackles through the air, as if in warning. Patrick jumps, his gloved hands curled into fists. “Shit.”

“Maybe it’s the big one,” Pete says. “Maybe the two smaller ones link up and lead back here.” The big tunnel looms at the rear of the chamber. “Or – maybe not.”

Patrick’s shaking his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

The noises keep coming, bleeding from the tunnel in strange, warped pulses. “It might be other cavers coming,” Pete tries, touching Patrick’s wrist. Patrick flinches away from him. “Come on, I think it’s this way. I remember not having to stoop.”

“Fine,” Patrick concedes, his face crumpled and desperate. He clasps Pete’s hand and marches towards the tunnel. Pete holds on for dear life.

As they step into the tunnel, everything becomes louder, closer, Pete’s own footsteps making him jump. Their lights disappear in the darkness, catching instead on gaps in the walls, puncture wounds that peek into miles of untouched caves. They look empty. Pete prays they’re empty.

They twist and turn with the stone until Pete’s sure that the next corner will bring them back to the chamber, but then the tunnel comes to a jagged dead end. At their feet is the tiny, coffin-sized squeeze. Pete takes a deep breath and pushes it out of his mouth.

“Can you do it?” Patrick asks. Pete’s not sure he has much of a choice. Then, the scraping echoes close, and Pete nods quickly.

“Yeah. I’ll follow you.”

“I’ll pull you out from the other side,” Patrick says as he drops to his knees and shrugs his pack from his back. His top half disappears into the gap and his boots push at the ground. He makes it look so easy.

Pete prepares to follow, sliding down the wall and clutching his pack to his chest. Then, right next to his ear, something claws.

“Fuck,” Pete yelps, flinching away from the wall and ducking into the gap. “Go, go!”

“I’m trying!” Patrick cries, his kneepads scraping the ground as he crawls. When his boots finally vanish, Pete shoves himself into the space. There’s no time for small movements, now, so he thrashes his way through, pulling and shoving and reaching for the comforting grasp of Patrick’s hands.

Every movement bruises him, his shoulder blades rubbed raw by the stone and his plastic helmet juddering along the ground. At first, all he can hear is his own feet, scuffling against the rock, but then he stops moving, just for a second, and the noise is still there, closing in. “I think there’s something there,” he says.

“You’re imagining it,” Patrick’s voice says, “just keep going.”

Pete’s head rattles around in his helmet but he keeps his eyes firmly shut. There’s nothing there, he tells himself, there’s nothing there. Then, something touches his leg.

It’s firm, deliberate, scraping into his skin like a fingernail. “Oh my God,” Pete blurts, “oh my God, Patrick, there is. There is.” He shoves himself forward in awkward, lurching movements.

“Come on,” Patrick strains, his hands finally clamping around Pete’s wrists and dragging him into blissful open space, “nearly there.”

But Pete can hear it, growling, gasping, the imprint of its grasp still making his leg tingle. He forces himself forward and finally, his arms are free. As soon as he’s able, he stands up, grabs Patrick’s hand, and begins to run.

“Pete,” Patrick gasps, “it’s okay, it’s in your mind –“

“Something fucking touched me,” Pete throws back, careering along the tunnel, “we’ve gotta get out of here.”

“It’s not – “

“I don’t care if it was real or not, I’m not spending another fucking minute in this place.”

Finally, Pete glimpses the jagged outline of the pitch. He falls on their ropes, shoving his harness on and clipping his ascender into place without looking back. Top-roping is nothing, it’s easy, and once Patrick’s got the other end of the rope in his hands, Pete throws himself at the wall.

He’s in his element, now; fuelled with adrenaline, he races around the rocks, fitting his fingers into the smallest of imperfections and hauling himself higher. It’s a short climb, a final hurdle, and once he collapses onto solid ground, he breathes out for the first time in a while, sinking into the dust with a profound relief.

“Pete?” Patrick calls from the bottom of the pit, “Pete, are you there?”

“Here,” Pete says quickly, scrambling to his hands and knees and rummaging around for his belay device. “Okay,” he says, clipping it into place and wrapping both hands around the rope, “I’ve got you.”

The rope pulls taut and Pete holds it in place, pulling lengths of slack into a coil at his feet as Patrick makes his way up the pitch. Pete feels calmer with each metre of rope he reels in; Patrick’s right, it’s just fear, playing tricks on his mind. They’ll laugh about this in a few minutes, then go on exploring. Then, the rope tugs beyond Pete’s strength and he lurches forward, stumbling. Over the edge, Patrick lets out a cry.

“Pete!” he screeches, “Pull me up!”

Pete’s world slips into disarray. He lunges for the other half of the rope, throwing all his weight into hauling Patrick to the surface. “I’m trying!” he yells, terrifyingly aware that if he slips, if he lets go, Patrick will fall.

Patrick’s gloved hand appears at the cusp of the pit, but when Pete swipes for it, the rope slides through his fist and Patrick’s fingers drop a few inches. He puts everything he has into heaving the rope further, and this time, both Patrick’s hands hook over the ledge. When Pete lunges, he hooks a hand under Patrick’s forearm and pulls until the rope goes slack in his grasp and Patrick’s there, falling on top of him.

“Patrick,” Pete breathes, wrapping his aching arms around Patrick’s chest. Patrick lets out a sob and urges Pete forward, pushing him away from the ledge.

“Move,” Patrick says, “we need to move.”

“Are you alright?” Pete says, crawling towards his pack and regarding Patrick’s panting form. He looks stricken – his hands are shaking as he reaches towards his ankle, his face pinched into a wince. “What the fuck, Patrick?”

“I dunno,” he says, his skin shining with sweat, “I really don’t know.”

“Your ankle –“

“Let’s go.”

Pete disconnects the rope from the anchor, shoves it into his bag and helps Patrick to his feet. He leans heavily against Pete, pain ripe on his breath, and Pete all but drags him back through the tunnels. During the crawls, he pushes Patrick ahead of him, throwing glances at the dark space behind them and staring, horrified, at the steady flow of blood from Patrick’s ankle. There’s a deep tear in his leather boot, but Patrick doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause for breath, just pushes onwards until up ahead, a sliver of daylight can be glimpsed.

As they wait for the ambulance, the phone pressed to Pete’s ear and Patrick cradled to his chest, Pete puts it down to fear, to crazed panic, to a slip in Patrick’s footing and a sharp rock. But as he digs through his pack for his water bottle, he touches something coarse and fluffy. It’s the frayed, shredded end of his climbing rope. The ends should be sealed with hot plastic. When Pete unravels it later on, he’ll also notice that the middle marker is no longer in the middle. For now, he just holds Patrick tight and tries not to let the gaping maw of the cave hold his gaze.


End file.
